


Haunted

by Rosehip



Series: Strange Luck [14]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Moral injury, Non-Sexual Bondage, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, everyone is a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-29 12:00:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16743589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosehip/pseuds/Rosehip
Summary: Macsen Surana finds himself in possession of one captured elven assassin and he is not thrilled about the implications.Alistair and Macsen have just left the Circle tower and would prefer never to think about what they saw there, again. But they will. A lot.Zevran didn't die, today. Yet. He's not sure how to feel about that and is just trying to get a read on the strange mage Warden who now holds his vow.Everyone has too much to think about.





	Haunted

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place just after Broken Circle, which was the first stop during the Blight Year.

Zevran awoke seconds before he felt the hand on his shoulder, shaking him for that purpose. Unlike earlier, when the head wound had been fresher, adrenaline spiked through him and he immediately recalled why he couldn't move and why he should be alarmed. The only mystery really was how he'd been able to sleep in the first place, unarmed, bound, on a single blanket on the Fereldan ground, and surrounded by strangers, when the Crows would soon discover his failure. That his exhaustion had overwhelmed his discomfort (and frankly his terror) said much about the recent past.

 

Experience had allowed him to keep his eyes shut, so Zevran feigned sleep to buy time. He could think of no good reason he would be quietly shaken awake in the middle of the night by a necromancer. It had to be he, for the hand was elf-sized.

 

“You're awake,” whispered Surana. “Your heartbeat doubled and your corrugator flexed. You may as well open your eyes.”

 

So much for that. Zevran obeyed. He lay half on his stomach to keep the pressure off his arms behind him; and had to shift to look up at the fellow. The warden had undone his braids, and must have run his hands through his long, dark hair several times. It stuck out wildly in parts. He still wore the same barbarian clothing from the day. The firelight lit his eyes orange and glinted off the bestial teeth stitched to his robe. He had his staff on his back and a sheathed dagger in his hand. He did not make for a comforting sight.

 

The Warden had earlier lost a roll of the dice and landed second watch. Nobody else appeared to be awake. He must not have slept during first watch, either.  _With luck, he just wants to accept my offer of bedwarming,_ Zevran thought.  _I swear he is the type._ In a hushed voice, he said “Interesting, Warden. Most would simply have said my eyebrows gathered, and certainly would not have noticed my heart.”

 

The sheepish look that flickered across the Warden's face clashed with his savage appearance. “I studied anatomy in the circle because I had an interest in healing. I'm used to people not knowing what I'm talking about when I use technical terms, but I can't stop doing it. I'm a little more sensitive than average to physiological changes, too. I... felt, more than heard your heart.”

 

Zevran rolled onto his back and forced himself into a sitting position, while the Warden shifted uncomfortably and glanced away.

 

“You did not wake me in the dead of night to discuss anatomy, Warden...” Zevran locked gazes with the other elf. “Or did you?” _Please let it be that. He is a good looking fellow, despite everything. Should I make some noise? Would the others help? Pah, I doubt it._

 

The Warden licked his lips and took a steadying breath. His heart was clearly racing as well. “Look, I shouldn't have even argued about this earlier. Alistair insists that I'm the leader, and so this doesn't have to be a democracy. I can't keep you as a prisoner.” He slid the dagger out of its sheath.

 

_Oh._ Zevran flopped back down to the ground, again. Was this it, then? He stared up at the sky. He had wanted his death. He accepted that he deserved it. He wished it had happened earlier, though, when he rushed into that ill-considered battle and had no time for dread. His stomach plummeted and his mouth went dry. He probably deserved this too. Some of his victims had known what was coming for them and had time to fear.  _She_ had.  _I accept your revenge, my dear. It is even a dagger. How appropriate. And yet, I wish I had someone skilled to wield it, if it had to be so._ He took a steadying breath and swallowed once before speaking. “I would perhaps feel the same in your place, Warden. Would you do me the kindness of waking that large fellow with the great-sword? You are not accustomed to using knives, are you?”

 

“Not for combat, no, but as a tool, sure. Sten's no better with a knife than I am. Great-swords aren't very precise, and if he slipped it would be terrible. Hold still.”

 

Zevran shut his eyes. “I will try. Please, just be quick, then.” He had barely got the words out when he felt the knife slide through the rope hobbling his ankles. His eyes flew back open in shock as he jolted upright.

 

The Warden looked back at him with dawning horror. Zevran knew the expression well, but could not fathom what had prompted it. He could not fathom a great many things at the moment. He felt faint. “Warden, what are you doing?”

 

The Warden's complexion paled further, somehow. “Freeing you. You... thought I was going to kill you?!”

 

“Yes, of course.”

 

“No! I couldn't sleep knowing you were kept like that because distrust beat decency, and I hadn't stopped it. I could have. I should have put my foot down but we were divided right down the middle on whether to trust you. Keeping you out of trouble while we slept was the compromise. Only- I've been locked up my whole life because people are afraid of me, and then I went and allowed the same thing. I'm so sorry!” The Warden looked like he wanted to cry or be sick and could not quite make up his mind which.

 

“I... accept your apology?” Zevran re-framed the last several minutes in light of this information. It felt like reality blurred, shifted several inches to the side and became clear again. “I cannot blame you for your caution, Warden. I have earned it, no?” _You are rather alarming yourself, after all._

 

“Maybe so, but I don't care.” The Warden's voice, little more than a whisper this entire time, began to harden, but did not grow louder. Perhaps they were both accustomed to stealth and secrets. “If you're staying, then your oath will be the only thing holding you. I know too well what happens when you treat someone like this.”

 

Zevran had to push. He had to know exactly how things stood. “And if I cut your throat in your sleep because of this?”

 

The Warden sighed. “If you were planning to, then you wouldn't remind me of the possibility, would you? And, seriously, you might want to take the Blight into consideration before you do anything like that.” Zevran was unsure if that was meant as a joke.

 

“Indeed. I do not believe it serves either of us to be enemies, Warden.”

 

“Good. Oh, blast!” The warden jumped to his feet and circled Zevran to cut the remaining rope. “I'm sorry, again.”

 

Zevran couldn't contain a purr of laughter. “Really, Warden, you are forgiven. The other Warden did well and my hands are unharmed.”

 

The Warden sat down across from him, and muttered “Hmph. Templars.” He returned his voice to the previous soft but normal tones, without judgment or pity. “You sound used to it.”

 

“Hmmmn. As you are, no?” The other looked away. “Ah, then let us not discuss that. But let us discuss _something._ I am done with sleep for a while.”

 

“I'm sorry I scared you.” The Warden blushed, and stood again to cover it. “I'll make us some mint tea. My stomach is eating itself.”

 

“You become less alarming with every word.” On the other hand, perhaps it _should_ alarm a man that such a bashful, herbal tea drinking fellow had those powers over life and death. During the ambush, the Warden took an axe-blow across his exposed chest. Lightning arced out of Surana's outstretched hands as he fell to his knees, forcing the hired bandit back. Surana snarled and beckoned with a deceptively gentle gesture, coaxing a strand of dark mist out of the bandit- into himself. The glowing glyph under the bandit's feet lit the two of them with eerie purple light. Surana's wound knitted itself to a much shallower cut as his opponent fell before him. Zevran had understood at once why nobody, not even opportunistic, would-be Maestros had even contemplated this job.

 

Now, the Warden heated water in a stone kettle and wrapped a bundle of mint leaves in some muslin. Zevran rolled up the blanket he'd been given and used it as a seat nearby. Somehow the tension eased out of the silence between them, or perhaps they were both simply too tired to pay it any mind. Zevran did feel like talking though, and asked “So, Warden, how is it that you came to join your order?”

 

“Um. You're really excellent at awkward questions. I will tell you that story sometime, but not today. Actually I don't think I can talk about the Circle at all right now. That doesn't leave me much for subject matter unless you want to talk about herbs?”

 

“I will trade you poison recipes for medicinal ones?”

 

“Perfect.”

 

***

 

Zevran awoke to a sudden sense of alarm for the second time that night. Still unarmed, but unrestrained, he calmed himself more quickly. The giant mabari eyed him warily. It hadn't been the dog that woke him. Zevran was fairly certain someone had said his name.

 

Alistair's voice rose in frustration. Ah, that was it. The Wardens conversed near the fire. Zevran listened.

 

“...that's no reason to take this kind of risk. He'll kill you.”

 

“And that's for the darkspawn to do, right?”

 

“Welllll, yes actually. Ideally, not before the Archdemon. _We're it_. We have to survive or nobody, nobody at all, has a chance.” A series of crunches on the frosty ground told Zevran the larger man had begun to pace.

 

“I get that. You said once that Grey Wardens always take allies where they can find them. This is me doing that. Can you look me in the eye and tell me Duncan wouldn't have conscripted him on the spot?”

 

“Ouch.”

 

“I'm sorryish.”

 

“Though, I-I guess he would have.”

 

Surana sighed. “We need every ounce of help we can get. I suspect that's what Duncan was thinking when he took _me_ , though he was too kind to say it. I'm grateful for the chance he gave me. It isn't just a chance to do some good, though. It's a chance to prove I'm not a monster and it's safe to let me out of my cage. And if me, then any mage. And... if I'm not a monster, then maybe he isn't, either.”

 

“You can't prove anything to anybody if you get your throat cut.”

 

“If you won't trust my instincts will you at least trust the two-hundred pound dog that's sharing the tent with us?”

 

“All right, all right. That's a fair point. I just... worry. Truthfully, I wasn't exactly looking forward to this. Images of the awkwardest evenings ever were flashing through my mind. 'Good job, today, everybody. Dinner was lovely. Now, please put your hands behind your back, assassin.'”

 

Surana snorted.

 

“Yes, I know. I wasn't great at lording over other people back then, either.” Alistair broke into a bashful sounding laugh. “Why do I get a hug for not being bossy?”

 

“You get a hug for 'other people'.”

 

“You're thinking about Cullen again, huh?”

 

“How _could_ he? I thought he was a friend.” He sighed.

 

“He's in a lot of pain, Macsen. He was there for weeks, with Maker-knows-what playing with his mind.”

 

“ _He's_ in a lot of pain?” Surana sighed. “Do you mind resting a few days at Redcliffe? I need time to... process, I suppose.”

 

“I was trying to figure out how to tell you that. You should maybe go get some actual sleep.”

 

“As opposed to yesterday's drunken coma? I'll do my best. Goodnight.”

 

Light crunches of footsteps heralded the approaching Warden. Zevran composed himself into apparent sleep. The tent flap opened and the dog let out a pleased whuff.

 

The Warden let out a dry chuckle. “Good boy, Fang. You're not actually asleep, again, Zevran.”

 

Zevran rolled over to face him. “What do they teach you in that Circle of yours? You might do well as an assassin if your methods were less obvious.”

 

“Being sneaky and spotting sneakiness are both necessary life skills in the Circle.”

 

“So it would seem. I did not seek to deceive so much as spare you further conversation, however.”

 

The Warden's brows arched higher and he thought for a minute. “Hm. Next time I'll just let you do that. Just so I'm clear, you were listening, right?”

 

“Of course. Not originally with intent, mind you.”

 

“But Alistair is loud.”

 

“He is, indeed.”

 

The warden smiled. It didn't quite reach his eyes, which after his earlier fit of guilt had passed, had returned to a decided flatness.

 

_What have you been doing, Warden? One lost battle did not do this to you. That widow from Lothering I spoke to would not call you a 'nice boy' now. You are, however, a nice boy._ The realization startled him, but Zevran felt sure of it. Necromancer or not, the Warden had been a good, ordinary man not long ago. Only, he looked like a Crow recruit... right after his fellows' heartblood stained his blades for the first time. Yes, the Warden had the look of someone who had done the unthinkable not long ago; remorse and resolve coupled.  _Oh, of course_ . How could he have missed it? He blamed the head injury.

 

“You're staring awfully hard,” the Warden interrupted his thoughts.

 

Zevran smiled. “I am simply admiring you. I meant my offer, you know.”

 

In the faint light of the nearby fire shining through the canvas, Zevran watched the blush return to the Warden's pale cheeks. But Surana laughed. It was a brittle thing, that laugh, but pleasant, anyway.

 

“Try Alistair. I'm going to sleep.” A tiny thread of mischief flickered across his expression. Without another word, he slipped off his outer garments (exposing gorgeously muscled arms), and rolled under his covers.

 

Zevran's own surprised laugh followed. “I only need the one concussion today. Goodnight, Warden.”

 

“Macsen,” came the voice from inside the cocoon of quilts.

 

“Very well. Goodnight.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks as always to everyone who took a look at this before it went up here, including those of you who left some lovely tags on tumblr.
> 
> Extra thanks to Starla-Nell, AngstofDestiny, and Raymurata, who have helped me shape Macsen's story into something real and have been extra supportive along the way.


End file.
